Changes (15 page)

"What do I look like, Lee, Barnaby-freaking-Jones?"

From her seat on the other side of the bed, Tracy said, "Wait a minute.  Randall, I thought…"

"That I suspected Master Cheng?"

"Well…yeah," she said. 

"I know of much better things to do with young ladies than kill them," he said, wiggling his bushy white eyebrows.

"Oh, puke," Tracy said.

"Master Cheng is one of the reasons I decided to stay in St. Louis," I said.  "My teacher always admired and respected him.  He said Master Cheng was the finest doctor he’d ever known."

"Damn right," Cheng muttered.

"He’s always turned me away as a student, but I thought for sure he would lend his expertise to a police investigation."

"I hate cops," he said.

"At least you didn’t let me sit here and suffer," I said.

He stared at me with disdain.  To Tracy he said, "You know what passes for Kung fu these days?"

She smiled and shook her head.

"Mush-head numbskull kids sit around mashing buttons.  Memorizing combinations for their video games.  No one seeks anymore.  No one strives.  Far easier to go to Wal-Mart and buy a gun.  Any dipshit can pull a trigger."

He ran a hand over his mostly bald head and slumped in the chair.

"What a world," he said.  "The few who want to learn, learn shit.  Tai Chi has it the worst… bunch of sissy
Gwailo
in cheap silk, dancing around in slow motion, waving their arms. They have the gall to call
that
Tai Chi Chuan? 

"Believe or don’t, young lady, but I am not a young man.   When I am gone, there will be no one left with my skill.  This one, for all his big-nose American stupidness, has some small Kung fu."

He turned to me and, twisting a needle, said, "Perhaps when you are well you may yet learn something."

"Does that mean you will teach me?" I said.

"It means that a pathetic sad old man is desperate enough to put his last bit of faith in a half-crippled American dumb ass."

Tracy looked at me as if I were insane for smiling.

46

Irony is a bitch.

Here I was, a guy who’s spent a good portion of his life peddling ‘alternative’ healing and natural cures, practically begging a doctor to give me something with a bit more kick than extra strength Tylenol.  Apparently nobody told the quack that I was a mass of broken bones, deep tissue bruises, and ten billion lacerations. Not to mention the concussion, that joy of joys.

But Mengele told me to alternate hot and cold compresses.

Why I oughta…

On the bright side, arms slings are sexy.  Tracy says so anyway, and that’s good enough for me.

And though I didn’t get to puke on Misty’s shoes again, I did give her a long distance one-finger salute from the car before we left.  I also shouted out things she could do with her damned jello that shocked even Tracy.

We went back to her place since mine was partially blown up and could easily become more blown up if any ne’er-do-wells were so inclined.

I’d never been happier to see a shriveled, naked cat-thing in my life.  I’d actually missed the weird little bastard.  Ole Tito must’ve felt the same, because as soon as Tracy got me situated comfortably on her couch, he planted himself on my lap and immediately started to purr.  Tracy cooed at the cuteness of it all, and one could almost hear Ebony and Ivory playing in the distance…  Until the little shit jumped right onto my (still very tender) ribs and we both learned just how high a human being can levitate with the proper motivation.  Tracy said she was pretty sure one of the doormen from the bar could get me some Vicodin, but I opted for a more time-tested, natural remedy – Whisky, and lots of it.

Knox called and told Tracy that a car would patrol the area from time to time in case any of those ne’er-do-wells decided to try again.  This was pretty comforting to me, because at the time I would’ve lost a bout to Misty’s jello, let alone some mad Triad bomber or our infamous Dim Mak killer. 

So we rented a truckload of movies and spent a lot of time together on the couch watching them and, occasionally, making out like rave kids.  A perfect combination of casual hang-out, slumber party, romantic getaway, and excruciating, mind-numbing pain.  Still, it was the most fun I’d had in a while, what with getting blown through my car and all.

I went to see it in the police impound lot.  I had to say goodbye.  Looking at the twisted wreckage, I had to admit that I was pretty impressed with myself for surviving the whole ordeal, but still… I loved that car.

It was going to take a lot of getting used to, being a pedestrian.

47

The old man took a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of his flannel shirt and slid them on, blinking with magnified eyes as he got used to the change in vision.  He leaned forward and peered at the photos laid out on the table, clucking and shaking his head occasionally.  I looked at them too.  The photos had been taken after Mei Ling’s body had laid long enough for the blood to pool from her tissues.  Her skin, in the photos, was no longer blue but a pale olive.  The only obvious discoloration on her body was in the area from the tops of her breasts to her ribs – the areas she’d been struck.

It looked almost as if someone had dipped mittens in black paint and tried to feel her up.

When Knox said something about the dark bruising, Master Cheng said, "Poison blood collect there."

Knox waited for a minute to see if the old man was going to explain further, but he didn’t.  Shaking his head, the cop went out to get more coffee.

Master Cheng perused the rest of the photos and grunted.  Then, sitting back in his standard issue uncomfortable police department metal chair, he folded his hands over his round belly and closed his eyes.  Within seconds, he snored softly.

When Knox returned with coffee (and a tea for Cheng), he looked at the old man and said, "Jesus."

With a dry lip smack, Master Cheng said, "Flattery will get you nowhere, Detective."

His eyes were still closed, his posture remained the same, and his breathing was slow and even.

Knox leaned on the table and whispered to me, "Find anything out?"

I shrugged.

"Two different styles," Cheng said, still seemingly asleep.

"I’m sorry?"  Knox said.

The old man opened his eyes and said, "Do not be.  Like your lumpy-headed friend, you cannot help that you were born into a hairy, brutish, ape-like American body.  To the list of your nation’s failings shall I add hard of hearing?  I said these were two different styles."

I frowned and looked down at the pictures.

"What do you mean, master?" I said.

"I mean just what I say."

I picked up several of the photos and studied them. 

"Are you saying they fought?" I said.

"Who?" Knox said.

"The girl and her murderer.  Pay attention," Master Cheng said.

Knox took the photos from me and flipped through them.

"The full story is there for one with eyes to see.  Look at the girl’s hands.  Carefully.  Are they the hands of a young girl?"

"Her hands look delicate, Master," I said.

"Look at her knuckles – she has undergone conditioning training," Cheng said.

I looked at the photo.  How Master Cheng could tell anything about her hands from these pictures, without a magnifying glass at least, was beyond me.

"Her build, the condition of her hands, the injuries she sustained… I would guess that the girl practiced some type of Shaolin martial arts.  Her killer, if my intuition is correct, is a practitioner of Chen style Tai Chi Chuan."

"How could you know that?" I said.

"I cannot
know
it, but the bruising along the insides of her arms, especially in the areas of the
Chize
and
Kongzui
points
,
bring to mind certain tactics I’ve known some Chen practitioners to use."

I looked at the photos and for the first time caught the faint, brownish, smudge-like bruises in the crook of her right elbow and forearm. 

"Additionally, though we cannot tell from these photos, I would not be surprised to find similar bruising on her hand, in the
Taiyuan
.  If this is the case, the utilization of the
An
strike as a deathblow was, in actuality, a mercy."

"What are you guys saying?  Lee, you’re the translator.  Translate," Knox said.

"Ah, it’s acupuncturist talk, mostly," I said, which was only a whitish lie.  "The fight was brutal enough that killing her with such a swift blow was a kindness."

"Brutal?  She’s got barely a mark on her…"

"The killer is sloppy.  Too skilled to be an American, surely, but still an amateur.  If he were expert, she would have no mark on her at all.  Only her organs would show the extent of the damage," Master Cheng said.

"So any idea how we catch this guy?" Knox said.

Master Cheng stood and slipped on his windbreaker. 

"Not my department.  You are the cop," he said, standing.

"Yeah, that’s what you two keep telling me.  Whoa, pal, where are you going?"  Knox said.  "I still have a lot of questions."

The old man shuffled out of the room and said, "I have no more answers for you.  I must take a piss and then it’s home for a nap.  Tomorrow, Lee.  Six o’clock."

With that, he left.

Barnaby-freaking-Jones, indeed.

48

"Stop, stop, stop!"  

I froze, holding the stance, expecting some sort of correction to my form.  Instead, he gestured to a chair.

"Sit, dummy.  Your footwork is fine…perhaps even good.  It’s when you move that is shit."

With the grey skies threatening to unleash sheets of rain and ice, Master Cheng had decided to hold our first class in his living room.  Though the room was small and filled with clutter – stacks of old newspapers, TV guides, and dog-eared issues of Prevention magazine covered every available semi-flat surface – Master said this was ideal.  Tai Chi Chuan, he said, should be practiced not only in wide open spaces but in small, cramped spaces, hills, anyplace with uncertain terrain.  The key, he said, was being fluid and adaptive. 

Part of my adapting included practicing one-handed.  Though my injuries were mostly healed - miraculously so according to my doctors - I still had to keep my arm in a sling to immobilize my collar bone.  I would occasionally forget myself and start to use the arm - proof, Master Cheng said, of my lack of mindfulness – but pain is an excellent teacher.

When I sat in the easy chair, its plastic cover crackling a protest beneath me, I was glad for the break.  My hips and lower back ached in ways they hadn’t since I was a child.  Master Cheng’s training involved lower stances and smaller movements; he said my large frame style was fine for "children and geezers."

Master sat across from me and sipped Coke from a McDonald’s cup.

"When you practice, you visualize your opponent," he said, wiping his chin with his sleeve.

"Yes," I said.  It was a classical training method that taught the mind to move the
chi
through the proper meridians and to the proper body parts for each combat application.

He nodded and said, "Watch.  This is my Tai Chi face."

Without any change in expression, he stared at me blankly for probably thirty seconds.

"This, dummy, is your Tai Chi face."

He immediately grimaced, eyes glaring, teeth clenched, and held his breath until his face was red.

He said, "I presume much, but hope that you see the difference."

I nodded and kept my chin down, hoping to hide the grin that threatened to overtake my face each time I remembered "my Tai Chi face."

"When you are visualizing the opponent," Cheng said, "your mistake is to imagine
fighting
."

This puzzled me a bit.  It must’ve showed, because the old man stood and assumed a stance; I knew from his position that he meant for us to push hands.

I stood, mirrored his stance, and placed my forearm against his.  As we began to move, his push neutralized by me, my push neutralized by him, he said, "Do we fight now?"

"No," I said.  Pushing hands was primarily an exercise to develop sensitivity and
nian
jing
or ‘sticking energy’.  Only by relaxing completely can one interpret the incoming push and properly yield to it; fighting or struggling is counterproductive.

"Find my center, boy… c’mon, get me!"

When I pushed against him, it felt like pushing against a revolving door.  It was surprising, because practicing with Master Cheng’s student had been like trying to push against smoke.  Perhaps the master was getting too old and inflexible to follow his own teachings.

Out of respect, I did not want to exploit the weakness, but I knew that if I didn’t really go after him that could be seen as an insult to his skill.  So, after neutralizing his push I slowly found his center of gravity, his root, and trapped it; I pushed in until he could not yield any more.  At the last possible second, before pinning his arm to his chest, I felt his weight – the revolving door I’d managed to lock into place – dissipate.

I managed to avoid hitting the coffee table with my face, but that meant that instead my full weight fell on my shoulder, sending neon-bright mushroom clouds of pain from my collar bone to my brain.  I rolled over, panting from the effort of it, and looked up at the old man.

He still stood in the same place, his feet never having moved, and giggled.

"See?  This is the game of Tai Chi Chuan… pushing me is like pushing a beach ball in the water.  Just when you think you’ve sunk it, it just rolls out from under you."

I nodded and staggered to my feet, half of my body numb with pain.

"In defense, you must be like the beach ball, you see?  In attack, you must be like the whip.  A whip, you understand?"

He mimicked snapping a whip with one hand.

I nodded.

"A whip is loose, fluid… a rigid whip is nothing but a club!  Clubs bend and break; the whip entangles, it flows around, and at the last second, it snaps against its target and transfers the built up force.  This…"  He performed a movement called ‘Brush Knee and Twist Step’ slowly, calmly.  "…is the whip. 
This…
"  He did the technique again, but wearing the grimace he’d worn earlier.  "…is a club."